The View From Where We Are
by EnlightenedSkye
Summary: Most Canadian women were finally given the right to vote on May 24, 1918, towards the tail end of the Great War. And what of our favorite characters? [Common Life AU series. Future fic. Jilliam, Gemily, and the Brackenreids. Complete oneshot]


A/N: I suppose introductions are in order! My name is Skye, and I'm an eighteen year old university student born in Germany, but currently residing in America. I've been keeping tabs on this fandom for a while, and I really like what I see. Usually I'm a Star Trek writer, as it is what comes easiest to me. But, as we know, all things are subject to change.

According to my research, non-indigenous women over the age of twenty-one were given the right to vote in Canada on May 24, 1918, in the final months of World War I. Here is where I imagine some of our favorite characters in the aftermath of that monumental decision. Trigger warnings for death in the family. References to Season 1's _The Annoying Red Planet_. Be kind, as this is my first Murdoch Mysteries fic, and my first language is not English, but German.

I've also not seen the entirety of season eight, as it has not yet aired where I am, but I've read the spoilers. My apologies if the historical details aren't exactly correct. This fic assumes that George's predicament at the season finale has been resolved in an unnamed manner. This is a unbetaed oneshot, complete as published, so all mistakes are my own. Enjoy, my friends, and be well.

 **The View From Where We Are**

The morning dawned clear on May 25, 1918, just as one would expect. Regardless of the Great War that was raging overseas, the picturesque streets of suburban Toronto were lush with summer foliage. A storm had swept in overnight, leaving the eaves and gutters of every home clogged with brush. Only the lone milkman or paperboy would consider leaving their domestic cocoon at this hour. That, of course, meant that William Murdoch was wide awake.

It was Saturday. There was no reason for him to be up and about before the rooster crowed; the boys at the station house could manage just as well if he weren't present. That was something he hadn't quite gotten used to since his promotion to inspector. He was a man of science and reason, the kind of genteel sort who would rather tinker with his inventions than respond to calls from the local brass all day. Whenever a phone call ran a little long, or he became absorbed in another memorandum directed to the mayor's staff, he would allow his gaze to wander over to his former office. There, he could expect to see his successor hard at work.

More than ten years ago, his protegee had been framed of the murder of his sweetheart's husband, who had recently returned from war and was found to have been mistreating his beloved Edna. It took nearly every bit of ingenuity he possessed, but William was eventually able to place the right killer behind bars.

Once the smoke had cleared, it became apparent that a great deal had changed for young Crabtree. Certainly the detective position he had sought out elsewhere was no longer waiting for him in the wings. Edna and Simon had fled town in the aftermath of the crime, and after all he had been through, he had no urge to reach out to them.

Such began a great period of change for the Newfoundlander. Everything he had worked for in the past few years lay in shambles around him. There was no other choice for him than to start again, working towards the same singular goal he had in mind when he arrived in the city as a young man. It took a great deal of convincing of his colleagues, who had been rather burned out on his dishonesty, but George was eventually able to reestablish himself at the level of professional decorum he once had.

A large amount of William's possessions remained in the detective's office when he vacated, including a chalkboard with massive divots worn into it from many years of erasing and scrawling. Other things were more difficult to part with, such as his magnifying glass or fingerprinting kit. But his wife had reminded him that regardless of his attachment to these items, they were still necessary for the proper operation of the station house. It was a major consolation that his tools would now be used by someone he could trust.

 _Julia_. In spite of himself, Murdoch smiled. His wife was still in bed upstairs, worn out from last night's celebration. After many years of her efforts in the suffrage movement, she was thrilled to no end to witness Parliament enfranchise all women over the age of twenty-one in the territory.

It had been a major concern for Julia that she might not live to see a portion of her life's work fulfilled. She was now just a shade over fifty years old; years of work in and out of hospitals, most recently for the benefit of soldiers and amputees that returned from overseas, had given her a bad back and weak ankles. Nevertheless, the couple had been there for the announcement, two borrowed lawn chairs parked in the shade before the House of Commons. When their good friend Clara Brett Martin, fresh from her defense of their stance, had burst from the doors, she had been very close to jumping up and clicking her heels like a schoolgirl.

The assembled crowd burst into discussion at the news, whether rejoicing at the tremendous stride forward in equality or convalescing over the territory's perceived loss of civility. Also in attendance to the impromptu celebration were a large portion of familiar faces.

Emily Grace, encircled by three fresh-faced daughters in the dawn of the pre-teen years, was the first to clasp her hands together and fairly squeal in delight. Her offspring quickly mirrored her posture, chattering excitedly amongst themselves as their mother celebrated with her colleagues. Watching the women revel, William became bemusedly glad that the younger doctor had chosen to leave her more sensitive children at home with her husband.

The Crabtree brood numbered seven before the war even started. To the surprise of absolutely no one, each of George and Emily's five children were born female, with fine, dusky hair and a fair complexion. In the grand tradition set by George's aunts, every single one had been named after a flower, from the eldest Violet, thirteen, to little Aster, just four.

He was glad that the couple had finally come around to one another. It seemed that George and Emily had gone through nearly as many trials on their way to the altar as he and Julia all those years ago. With Edna out of the picture, and Emily's female lover long gone, the two had tied the knot on a lovely spring day in 1905. The Murdochs had been the only ones in attendance besides the reverend, who performed a gloriously short and to the point service on a lush hill overlooking St. John.

No less than eight months later—Julia would go to her grave saying that she suspected a little fooling around out of wedlock rather than a premature birth—the good doctor was successfully delivered of her first baby. Emily, with all of her modern sensibilities, had chosen to give birth in the safe confines of a hospital with her dearest and oldest friend presiding over the operation.

After the delivery, as the Murdochs stood outside the room, watching the new family revel in each other's company. Even with her back turned to him as she cleansed her hands in a basin of water, William could tell that Julia was trying and failing to hold back her tears.

His wife had never been able to have children as the result of a botched abortion in her gadabout years. That had been a source of contention for them at the beginning of their relationship, but now all that was on William's mind was making things right.

For too long, their home had remained sterile, free from the chaotic touch of a child. Julia wouldn't admit it, but she was desperate to provide him with the domestic life he had once imagined. Sure, they would never be completely ordinary as far as couples went, but he could stand to do a lot more towards remedying to empty spot in both of their hearts.

Felix came along a few weeks later. It was clear from the first step into the orphanage that Julia had no intention of shopping around. She marched directly towards the open doors of the nursery and didn't come out until she'd located the most unfortunate specimen of the lot. The infant's parents had passed away in a tragic steamer accident that had left very few survivors only weeks before. He was tow-headed with large, beseeching brown eyes. Even though he was not of the combination of their blood, William couldn't help but think that the baby was a perfect amalgamation of their most significant traits.

The child came with a handicap, one that they could see from the very moment he had been free from his swaddling. One leg was woefully twisted and deformed beyond rehabilitation, the result of a cross beam falling onto his bundle of blankets in his mother's rush to abandon ship. It was beyond doubt that the boy's standard of life would be considerably lower due to this injury. Nevertheless, Julia was set in her decision. The baby had come home with them that very day.

From the beginning, William was unsure of his ability to entertain a small boy. He lived in perpetual fear of being as poor a father as his own had been. However, from the first moment he held Felix in his arms, tiny fists and legs flailing as he took stock of his surroundings, he knew that he was in love.

As the child grew, it became evident that he possessed a brilliant and analytical mind regardless of his disability. He sat unperturbed through diaper changes and bathing, and even allowed his parents to read to him as he took in the sight of the towering letters before him and strove mightily to decipher them. The winter he turned six, Felix assisted his father in the assembly of his first walking support.

The two scientists sat on the carpeted floor of William's study one rainy afternoon and set to their work. The boy absorbed every tidbit of information he could gather on physics and biomechanics, and was prepared to recite them back to his father at the first available moment. Each time, he was rewarded with a small smile or else a clap on the back. By the time Julia returned home from the hospital, the pair had manufactured a very functional piece of machinery. Made from strips of supple leather and flexible dowel rods, the brace fit like a glove.

With the extra assistance, Felix could walk about almost like any other child. He grew like a weed from puberty onward, excelling at whatever task he was presented with in school. At home, he was compliant and well-spoken, earning him the respect of many of his parent's friends. William couldn't imagine that he could be any more proud of his son.

The summer his mother earned the right to vote, the youngest Murdoch was twelve years old. From the kitchen, William could hear his boy muttering to himself as he pored over each of the scientific volumes in their personal library. He had been dealt quite a difficult task indeed in his science course; by the end of the next week, he was expected to be able to drop an egg from the roof of the schoolhouse and have it reach the ground completely unscathed. It would be much easier for the elder lawman to give him a push in the right direction, but he admired his son's initiative and was only too glad to allow him to putter about in his office before breakfast was even served.

A mostly empty flask of liquor was tucked in the corner by the breadbox, souvenir of the women's night of debauchery. After the announcement, Emily was only too glad to send William and her daughters home if it meant she could visit one of the police bars and enjoy a stiff drink. He was sure that the women's appearance had rustled quite a few feathers, but he was willing to bet they hadn't been too bothered by that.

The electric doorbell rang from the foyer. Sweeping the offending beverage behind one of the curtains, William went to answer it. A bright eyed doctor was there to greet him, her appearance entirely at odds with the stories Julia had come home with in the wee hours of the morning. From the way her skirts rustled as she bobbed on her toes, he could tell that she was excited about all the possibilities the day might bring.

"Dr. Grace," he began, opening the door wide. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

She frowned and adjusted her fascinator, as if she was dismayed that he couldn't guess why she had chosen to make an appearance. "The truth is, _Inspector_ ," she intoned, making a jest at his persistent use of formal tone, "I've come to pick up your lovely wife. We've got a meeting with the ladies of the Women's Suffrage Society, and then we're off to spread the good news."

William had to smile at her enthusiasm. "I see. I'm sure she'll be along presently. Why don't you come in and wait for her?"

"I'd be delighted," Emily said, sweeping in after him.

His son took the opportunity to make an appearance, peering around the corner from the end of the hall to take stock of their unannounced guests. Making incidental eye contact with his father, Felix soon realized that his cover had been blown. Stepping into view, he bowed his head respectfully. "Good day, Dr. Grace."

"Hello to you too, Felix," she greeted him, sinking down into the plush cushions of a chaise longue in the sitting room. Her shorter, nearly mid-calf dress, in keeping with the latest fashions, left her the fabric of her white stockings in full view upon sitting. William quickly averted his eyes and excused himself to check on the tea kettle.

The boy was, as always, to the point in his singular interests. "Did Rose come with you?"

He had to shake his head at that. Somewhere near the beginning of the school year, his son had discovered that his former female playmates were suddenly much more soft spoken and delicate. Instead of wearing their hair loosely, they kept it tied back in styles similar to those of their mothers. They stood in the corner of the exercise yard, tittering amongst themselves and conversing about God knew what. Almost overnight, girls began to fascinate Felix. The main target of his infatuation was, in fact, Emily's second oldest daughter. All other parties involved had been entertained by the possibility of this relationship, but William was concerned. In the space of a few years, his son would be courting and preparing to propose marriage. _Where had the time gone?_

"I'm afraid not," Emily replied, hiding her knowing grin behind her gloved palm. "She and Violet are currently at home watching the young ones. Perhaps we could arrange a playdate for the two of you at some later time."

William returned to the sitting room just in time to see his son slink off dejectedly. Secretly, he was glad to see him return so quickly to his pet project in the study.

His guest accepted the cup of tea she was offered and took a rather dainty sip. Over the course of the past decade, Emily had lost many of the youthful qualities that had set her apart from the new recruits at the station house. She'd maintained a steady job as the city's coroner since then, racking up many an accomplishment and spreading her good name throughout the territory. He wasn't sure what had happened to that scrappy recent medical school graduate that had been so excited to get her hands on a human brain for the very first time. She had grown into a respected professional before his very eyes, while he only grew older.

Through the thin ceiling, William heard the thud of feet on the wooden floor followed by the sound of a door swinging open. If he didn't miss his guess, this was most likely his wife realizing the lateness of the hour and struggling to complete her morning routine in record time. Some things never changed.

"Should we be expecting George as well?" He asked, knowing full well that the couple were very nearly attached at the hip.

Emily nodded. "I suppose you should. He went to rouse Margaret and bring her around to the meeting. She's seldom left the house in the past few months, you know."

He was aware of this. His eyes fell to his own drink, watching the alternating swirls of sugar and leaf fragments swirl in the liquid. A weighty silence descended over the pair as William began to reminisce.

The man that had given him the position of detective at Station House Number Four, the unflappable Thomas Brackenreid, was but a wisp of a memory to him. It was not the scourge of sickness or the devastation of war that took the Scot from this world, but a sudden heart attack as he sat at his desk one evening finishing reports.

It was William that had found him there a few hours later. He'd wandered back into work, leaving his wife alone at home, because the particulars of his latest case were weighing heavily on his mind. A prominent lawyer had been shot in his home, and the clerk arrested, but something just didn't seem right about the case. He spent an indeterminate amount of time staring at the lines of clues scrawled on the blackboard. Just when he thought he'd made a breakthrough, he had burst into the Inspector's office full of anticipation. He was sure that his idea would be shot down in favor of _following the money_ or _being happy with the culprit we've already caught, sunshine_ , but it was worth the attempt.

He stopped in his tracks, taking in the scene of the older man slumped over his desk, half drained tumbler of scotch barely within the grasp of his fingers. Ink from his pen had spilled over the pages he had been working on, leading Murdoch to believe that he'd been dead for quite some time. Stepping around the desk, careful not to disturb the body of his friend, he picked up the receiver of the telephone.

Margaret had been inconsolable upon arriving to the station house, collapsing into his arms and weeping like a small girl. However, once her sons arrived, she'd straightened her spine and set her jaw. As always, she had to be strong. She had to be strong for the boys. It was what Thomas would have wanted.

Perhaps this was so. But both of them were fully grown at the time, and full of their own ambitions. When war was declared, Bobby and John enlisted in the voluntary draft. It might have been their own delusions of grandeur, the urge to do something good for their country, or the desire to honor their father's legacy. Only God knew the reasons they went overseas, especially now that there was quite the distinct possibility that both could be dead.

The news of Bobby's demise reached Toronto in the sweltering heat of the summer. It was 1915, and Margaret had put all of her available time towards supporting the war effort at home. She labored from dawn until dusk at a sewing machine at a factory, mass producing field uniforms for the troops. Her fingers pinned and stitched khaki until they bled, while she immersed herself in thoughts of a better time. Her sons would return and settle down with respectable women and give her grandchildren, and they would all come and visit her in the lofty, empty house she once could call home. Yes, this was how it was to be.

Each widow or mother of the fallen troops received a letter of consolation from their commanding officer. But Margaret couldn't bring herself to read the details of how her son had been brought to his maker with the help of a German artillery shell. It was all too much.

It had also been over three years without any communication from John. The last anyone heard from the eldest Brackenreid, he was making tracks across Belgium towards the border. That was before the conflict at Ypres that had killed his brother. William had lost count of how many prayers he'd said on behalf of the family, to no avail.

Julia came along in that moment, freeing them from dwelling on the more depressing aspects of the situation. Noisily trundling down the stairs, she was trying to make her tangle of flaxen hair presentable as Emily rose to greet her.

"Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes?" Emily expedited the process by retrieving her friend's purse and hat from the hook in the hall.

The other woman grunted in greeting, speaking around the hat pins that were clasped between her lips. "I'm afraid that I'm not as young as I used to be."

Her husband seized the opportunity to kiss her soundly on the cheek, knowing full well that once she left the house he most likely wouldn't see her for the rest of the day. Julia grinned wryly and leaned into his embrace.

"Perhaps some of us are simply better at holding our liquor," she wondered aloud, touting her youth for the much older couple. Really, she was one to speak on appearances. If William had been caught in the dredges of his mid-fifties, with a salt and pepper haircut and carefully groomed mustache to match, Emily had as of yet to escape the reach of Father Time. The good doctor was graying at the temples.

The electric bell rang once again, and William had to suppress a groan. When had his humble home turned into the bustling fairway of a rail station?

A second, perhaps even brighter, smiling face met him at the door.

"Good morning, sir! And what a lovely one it is, I must say," the newest guest exclaimed, his Newfoundland accent ever present in his speech.

His detective didn't wait for an invitation as he entered the foyer as he had countless times before. As he passed, William caught sight of a forlorn figure standing at the end of the sidewalk.

It didn't surprise him that Margaret Brackenreid preferred to stay outside while the rest of the group socialized. Loss after devastating loss had worn the woman down, and she looked a great deal older than her seventy years. Her kind face was anchored with wrinkles, and her hair was completely white. He couldn't recall the last time he'd seen her without her black veil; the good lady had even sworn to wear nothing but mourning gowns until John returned from overseas. She was indeed operating under the assumption that he was already dead.

Now, the filtered sunlight that crossed her dour face made her appear as an apparition of the woman she once was. In the early days of the suffrage movement, he recalled Margaret telling his wife that a woman had no need for the vote if she had a strong man to run the household for her. Her willingness to attend the meeting now belied a change of heart.

"Why, Julia, you look lovely!" George was saying behind him, much to his wife's consternation.

"Don't lie to me, Mr. Crabtree. I look like I've been run over by a carriage," Julia lamented as she examined her reflection in a mirror.

Emily hooked her arm through her companion's elbow, eager to start their journey. "Perhaps a pint less on our next outing. You're no worse for wear, I assure you."

"That's easy for you to say," Julia mumbled as the duo made their way to the door. She looked like she wanted to say something more, perhaps exchange words with her son before leaving, but her friend was rushing her towards the exit.

Over her shoulder, Emily called out to her husband, "I suppose you'll be staying and keeping the Inspector company, dear?"

His face lit up at the suggestion. So much for William's anticipated quiet morning of study.

Two things happened in the next moment. The door slammed, announcing the departure of the two ladies, and Felix reacted to the familiar voice of one of his favorite people on this earth.

"Uncle George, is that you?" He appeared at the end of the foyer, leaning heavily on his leg brace for support.

William could follow this conversation to its natural conclusion. With a smirk, he left the room to pour some more tea for himself and his good friend.

From the sitting room, he could hear his son and the detective conversing excitedly about his project for school. George was prone to waxing poetically on his glory days as a constable, and loved to tell stories. Nearly every conversation spent with him was doomed to suddenly veer off as he chased after a tangent of some sort. This was no exception.

"If you want to deliver the egg safely to the ground, you're going to have to harness the natural power of the wind! That reminds me of the kind of dirigible that were common in my day. Did your father ever tell you that we once solved a murder that had been committed aboard one?"

His ability to recall cases that had been wrapped up nearly twenty years ago confounded William. In the day and age when they were able to count the suburb of Markham as their stomping grounds, his beloved Liza was still fresh in the earth. Long suppressed memories flashed before his eyes, and he had to stop at the threshold of the room.

Felix expressed wonder at this occurrence, especially because his father was often averse to telling stories of the old days. Encouraged, George continued: "Imagine our surprise when we found the dead man aloft in a tree in a field that had been freshly plowed. He was a Frenchman, an amateur astronomer as it were, and quite interested in Mars."

"Wow! Is that true, father?" The boy asked, his tone hopeful.

"Of course," he answered, taking a seat in his favorite armchair. The tea he had left the room to retrieve lay, mostly forgotten, on a side table. None seemed very interested in it, as between the older men they recounted the glory days, from their run-ins with famous inventors, to the tremendous bother of a rather meddlesome government agent, to the great civic upheaval taking place at the turn of the century.

Without these almost routine visits, it might have been so that many a case would lapse out of memory. But through their conversations, often taking place in the sitting room of the Murdoch family home, the two lawmen could relive their favorite experiences and what they had felt in the moment each time a case was finally solved. Without a doubt, they had a captive audience, but their retellings of the events were lackluster compared to the real thing.

If he closed his eyes and really concentrated, William could see himself stepping out of his boarding house on 22 Ontario Street on that spring day in 1894. He knew that he was infinitely wiser and happier than he ever had been in the days of his youth. He also knew that if he were to just step out on his porch for a moment, he could experience the same sensation of wonder at God's creations as he had then.

It wasn't much different, but the view from where he was at didn't disappoint.

 **The End**


End file.
